January--A Portrait--by Fran McClelland

Barren branches reach toward the steel-gray sky,
the air whistles through them as they sway;
Touching each other with a crackling sound,
as moaning calls of winter birds obey.

With each move these tender limbs try,
to hold themselves up with honor;
Yet as wind-gusts snap twigs to solid ground,
this scene can appear to us in horror.

Why now has Nature turned so bold and brave,
while January's nesting and resting starts ?
Its darkness looms with grave concerns,
for every lonesome and solitary heart.

And the whirling frost will paint its pictures,
along the cabin's windowsills each night;
The once fiery hearth seems weak and weary,
as the force of numbing cold begins to bite.

It was quite different when we lived farther south,
with memories faded and lost from years ago;
But now we stumble over towers of icy hills,
and plow our way through fields of snow.

The strong would survive the wicked winds,
the remaining folks just fade away;
Yet when we hold each others' hands,
our deepest misery blows far astray.

Remember the elders on the farm,
telling stories of such reckless seasons;
Their courage and wisdom brightened our world,
for them--life's challenges had their reasons.

Huddled together in our woolen shawls,
with my loving family close at hand;
I pray to the Lord that we all survive,
the bleakness of this cold and bitter land.